Something to Believe In
by aftersh0cks
Summary: If his car hadn't broken down that day, Enjolras would never have met his boyfriend and Grantaire never would have believed in anything. Modern day AU, E/R.


Enjolras' car stalls as he's pulling out of the parking lot, and however hard he tries, it won't start again. He's never been much of a car person, so he calls the auto company and walks into the Cafe Musain to grab a coffee.

The barista is about his age. He is clean-shaven with chocolate eyes and a smile that seems more plastered on than real. His hair is dark. Enjolras orders a white mocha and smiles at the barista.

Suddenly the plaster becomes real.

Enjolras thanks the barista—_Grantaire_, reads his nametag—picks the coffee up and takes a seat near the window and almost forgets to hurry out to meet the mechanic.

&.&.&.&

The next day, Enjolras detours to Musain. He was only there to pick up a book about historical politics, but he brings the book this time and takes a seat near the window.

Grantaire is working there again, and Enjolras orders a white mocha. He sits down and reads, but spends more time thinking about the young man behind the counter than the words on the page. Though Enjolras has always found Rousseau, Machiavelli and Hayek interesting, those chocolate eyes and plaster smile become a hundred times more fascinating than any history when he's around them.

&.&.&.&

The Musain becomes his new coffee place. He orders a white mocha from Grantaire every day for a week, watches the statue become flesh, and sits down to read, not comprehending the words until he goes home after a while and re-reads the pages in his flat.

On the eighth day he is there, he goes up to the register and opens his mouth, but Grantaire says, "White mocha, right?"

Slightly stunned, Enjolras nods and takes out his wallet to pay.

"You're in here a lot lately," Grantaire says as he heads to make the coffee. "I've never seen you around before that but you're here every day. And what is it you're reading all the time?"

"_The Origins of Politic—_" begins Enjolras, but ends up holding the book up instead, having the decency to feel shame about his obsession with history. "I'm a history major, you know. Major in history, minor in politics. Useless, but I like it."

"I'm well-versed in classical literature, if that counts as anything," Grantaire says. "Homer. Aeschylus. Sophocles. Not so much the politics of it all, though." He shrugs, finishing the coffee and handing it over. "You'll be here tomorrow, I presume?"

Enjolras nods. "I do hope so," he says.

Grantaire smiles, and the smile reaches his eyes. "I look forwards to it."

He returns to the counter as Enjolras puts cinnamon and chocolate shavings onto his mocha, and when he looks back at Grantaire, his smile is as if it was a canvas again—a ghost of reality.

&.&.&.&

Courfeyrac asks him why he's never at the coffee shop on the street near their flat anymore. Joly asks how he's been reading the same book for hours in a week and only be a hundred pages in. Combeferre asks him if it's a girl. Jehan inquires about writing a poem for this girl.

Enjolras answers a lame, "Because," to the two questions and a simple, "No," to the last two, followed by, "I have an essay due in two weeks and I want to get it done quickly."

"You're normally such a fast reader," says Joly. To the other three college students, he says, "It _must _be a girl. He usually doesn't act this way."

Courfeyrac nods. "I think Jehan's right, Enjolras. You should write a poem for this girl. We'll even help you write it if you tell us who she is."

"I'm asexual," Enjolras reminds his friends, but even he doubts it, and Grantaire swims in his mind as he tries to finish his essay on the causes and effects of the French Revolution. He continues with something he's sure of. "I don't like women."

"Dammit!" Courfeyrac says, and he looks at Combeferre. "Fine, ten Euros."

&.&.&.&

The following day the coffee is already on the table as Enjolras walks in the door. Grantaire smiles at him as he approaches, money already in hand. "Am I really that predictable?" Enjolras says.

In response, Grantaire holds out his watch. "Five-fifteen, on the dot," he says.

"It's five-eighteen."

"The only variation to when you get your coffee is the number of people in the line ahead of you," says Grantaire. "Five-fifteen sharp, every day, weekends and weekdays."

Enjolras shrugs. "I like knowing what I'm about to do each day and I'm always out doing something," he says. "And this coffee is quite honestly lovely every day."

A customer comes in then, and Enjolras moves, letting Grantaire serve the woman while making small-talk with her, and the moment she leaves, Grantaire looks at him. "Still here, aren't you?"

"Apparently."

"Don't sound so down," Grantaire says, though when Enjolras has been listening to the constant come in, come out of customers taking orders and coffee-making, Grantaire has sounded exactly that: down. "My God, we've been talking for a while and I don't even know your name."

"I'm Enjolras," he introduces himself. "And you are Grantaire, unless your nametag says wrong."

"My friends call me R," says Grantaire.

It clicks almost instantly. Grantaire sounds like Grand R which shortens into just plain R. "I see," Enjolras says, and he smiles. "Witty."

"My friends like their puns," Grantaire says. A group of people come in, and Grantaire sighs, looking at them. "I hate to go, Enjolras, but I'll see you around, I suppose."

"See you, then, R."

&.&.&.&

It is two weeks later, and Enjolras has been visiting the Musain at five-fifteen every day and ordering a white mocha. He stands around for fifteen minutes, making small talk with Grantaire, until Grantaire gets too many customers or his boss comes out and Grantaire shoos Enjolras to a table.

But it is the first of December, and the Musain is considerably emptier than it has been all month. Grantaire serves another customer as Enjolras stands near the counter, sipping his coffee.

"I'm not sure if this information would be of importance to you, but I get off shift in two hours."

The information is of utmost importance in Enjolras' mind. "Would you like to do something together?" he asks. This is his first time asking someone on a date, and he can't stop the shake in his voice. "I don't know what, exactly. Just … something."

He realizes how dirty that sounded and mentally winces, but if Grantaire's mind has translated it that way, he takes no notice. "What about that movie?"

"What movie?"

"We'll decide when we get there," says Grantaire. His dull chocolate eyes suddenly seem brighter. "I'm sure you don't want to stay around for two hours, so is seven-thirty fine for you?"

Enjolras smiles. "Fine by me."

"Maybe you won't have to sit around and read for an hour, huh?" says Grantaire, and he's laughing, teasing the other man. "You're not even paying attention to that book. I can tell. When you've got three hours to observe, observe you must."

"You've caught me," says Enjolras, laughing softly. "Though it is interesting."

"Not here it isn't," says Grantaire, and another customer comes in. "I'm sorry, but I have to get back to working or my boss is going to flip. I'll see you at seven-thirty."

Enjolras smiles and says, "See you then," and walks out of the coffee-shop before six-fifteen for the first time in a week and a half.

&.&.&.&

"I knew it!" Courfeyrac says, and he laughs and slaps Combeferre on the back. "Ten Euros to me, Combeferre, ten Euros to me!"

The three are in their flat, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are playing video games on their TV. Enjolras had come in a minute ago, announcing he had to leave at seven for the coffee shop. He's still not used to Courfeyrac and his need to bet on everything, or Combeferre and his occasional startling deep questions on life mixed with mindless video games. He's not used to Courfeyrac leaving the milk out or Combeferre leaving his clothes everywhere in the flat. And he's most certainly not used to Courfeyrac's need to bring a different girl home every other day or Combeferre's long-term girlfriend coming over every other weekend.

These two are his best friends, though—they have been since he started his first year—and he wouldn't trade them for anyone. "Actually," says Enjolras, dropping his bag at the doorway, "you both have to give me ten Euros."

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. "Try me," he says.

"It's not a girl and it's not no-one, either." Enjolras sits beside Combeferre. "Before you ask, we're not dating, and it's a guy."

The way Courfeyrac and Combeferre curse together makes Enjolras start laughing as it's almost synchronized, but he's passed twenties by each of them. When he asks why, Courfeyrac says, "Ten for the bet, five for the surprise and five for the date."

They both refuse when Enjolras tries to give them back and laugh when he protests the word "date" and have far too much fun instructing Enjolras on the proper way to date a person.

&.&.&.&

They end up not seeing the movie but going to the bookstore next to it, picking up various books. It's more of a spontaneous thing than anything else. As Enjolras and Grantaire stand in the history section, Grantaire asks, "Is this a date?"

Enjolras looks at him. "I don't know," he says. "Is it? I've never been on one before."

"I've never been on a proper one," admits Grantaire. He picks up a book on Leonardo da Vinci's art. "Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, blah, blah, blah."

"Hey, the Mona Lisa's priceless," Enjolras protests, taking the book. "Leonardo da Vinci was pretty much every intellectual profession there could have been in those days. I look up to him. Anyways, haven't you ever gone to the Louvre?"

"And have you not ever heard of the term 'starving artist'?" Grantaire asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Artists weren't starving in the Renaissance," says Enjolras. "They were richer than farmers and merchants. The only people who were richer were nobles and bankers, really—whoever commissioned them to do their work."

He realizes the history spills out of his mouth and closes it. Grantaire, however, looks pleased. "History majors and artists have always gotten along well," he says, walking along the tall shelves of the bookstore. "And this would be a good first date, in my opinion."

"In mine too," Enjolras says. "Shall it be our first date?"

"It shall," says Grantaire, and he closes a gloved hand around Enjolras' bare ones.

&.&.&.&

Enjolras leaves for his hometown with the numbers of eight people—seven friends, one boyfriend. He tells his mother when he gets in. "The moment I let you out of my sight you're going and getting boyfriends!" exclaims his mother excitedly. "Enjolras, if we knew this would happen, we would have sent you to college earlier!"

"I couldn't even go to college when I was sixteen, Maman," Enjolras reminds his mother.

"You're certainly smart enough, my Enjy," says his mother. "You just slack off and sit reading historical documents instead of doing homework. Please tell me you aren't doing that in school."

"My homework is historical documents," he reminds his mother, and she seems satisfied with this information.

Enjolras' mother switches to another topic; the topic that Enjolras had been dreading. "Now how about that boyfriend?"

"_Maman_!"

&.&.&.&

He flies back to Paris the day before New Year's Eve on Grantaire's request. He can't believe it's been almost two months since the first time he saw Grantaire standing in the Musain. It feels like such a short time; at the same time, it feels like forever.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre are there as well. Of all their friends, their flat is the biggest, so they host the New Year's Eve party, complete with wine and loud music that Enjolras has to keep insisting to turn down lest it disrupt the neighbors or get the cops called on them.

Enjolras meets girlfriends, girlfriends, girlfriends, and one boyfriend who seems quite content to have another boyfriend to socialize with. Grantaire mostly floats around Enjolras and keeps away from the wine. "You're not going to have any?" he asks Enjolras, offering a glass.

"I don't drink," Enjolras says.

"Why not?"

"Why do you not drink?"

Immediately, Enjolras can see that he's hit a sensitive spot. Grantaire's obviously trying to show it, but Enjolras reads the subtle facial hints, and he says, "I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"I will," Grantaire promises, "because you deserve to know. But not today. Not five minutes before the New Year—I want to start it on a good note."

He sets the glass of wine on the counter. "You've never kissed anyone before, you say?"

"I've not been much for relationships until now," admits Enjolras. He looks around at the flat crammed with people: fifteen, in fact. Five girls; the rest men, and nearly all heading towards that unsteady haze of drunkenness.

"You've not been much for anything," Grantaire says.

When the time comes to count down, they join in with the rest of the group and when the entire group of young twenty-somethings all shout, "Happy New Year!" and kiss, Grantaire turns towards Enjolras and kisses him, and Enjolras doesn't really know what to do, but he manages to muster up what he thinks he can call "kissing back."

In retrospect, that was one of the best first kisses a man could have.

&.&.&.&

As promised by Grantaire, he manages to muster the courage to tell Enjolras a week from New Years. "I used to have a bit of a drinking problem," he says quietly as they walk along the snow-covered street. The Eiffel Tower is in front of them. Tourists making a last rush towards Paris mill around them, but Enjolras feels like there is only one person there: Grantaire. "I had a rough childhood and adolescence and turned to alcohol to forget when I was seventeen." Three years. "I won't drink any more, though—I've been fighting to stop since I started but it's never worked till now."

Enjolras squeezes his hand. "It's okay. Do you want me to help?"

"You already are."

"What made you decide to stop?"

"The ninth of November." Grantaire turns, smiling, and waits for him to get it; Enjolras cycles through the dates until he meets that day. The day his car had broken down and he had gone into the Musain for a coffee.

"Me?" he says softly.

It's not as if he's all too surprised by the fact that Enjolras has been used as an incentive to stop Grantaire's drinking. He's surprised by the fact that he has the power to do that.

"You." Grantaire leans to kiss Enjolras. "A regular Apollo, you are. I looked at you and realized that there are some things worth remembering in this world. Honestly, up until you started coming into the Musain every day at five-fifteen, I had nothing to rely on. Nothing to believe in."

"And now?"

"I'm starting to believe in something."


End file.
